Dead Bodies
by chaletian
Summary: For two minutes, the car was filled with writhing and caterwauling. Then blessed silence. John loved this game. Wee!chester fluff.


**Dead Bodies**

**by Liss Webster**

There were strict rules for this type of combat, and John Winchester was there to make sure they were followed. He took off his watch, and laid it carefully on the dashboard.

"OK," he said gruffly, "I want you both dead in two minutes, got it?" In the mirror, he saw Sammy nod enthusiastically. Dean just crossed his arms and stared out of the window, his entire attitude one of a boy several years too old to play this particular game. Tough, thought John, unsympathetically. Dean was the one who had buckled and let Sam have two bowls of that sugared-up cereal he liked so much, and to John's way of thinking that made Dean responsible for the fact that Sammy's brain was exploding from sugar overload. That meant he was damned well going to play along.

Sammy had already started dying, his death throes as athletic as could be managed in the back seat of a '67 Impala. He jerked, twitched, and spasmed with impressive verisimilitude for a seven-year old. He clutched at his throat, arched his back, and let out a weird-ass screech that had Dean's eyes rolling. John caught Dean's eye in the mirror and raised a warning eyebrow. Dean looked disgusted, but started out a low, hollow creaking moan that grew hollower and creakier until John was afraid his eldest might actually pass out if he didn't take a breath soon. A quick glance at his watch told John that the two minutes were up, and he barked out, "You're dead," at which Sammy collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut, and Dean lolled against the window.

Ah. Peace. John put his watch back on, and leaned back against the seat, one hand resting on the steering wheel, the other flicking through the crumpled road atlas as he checked his route to their next destination. That done, he rolled his shoulders, cracked his spine, checked the mirror to make sure the boys were both still dead, and switched on the radio, twiddling the tuner until he found a station playing mellow old country music. He took a deep breath. And relaxed.

It was still relatively early, and a Sunday, so the roads were quiet. Although it was nearly October, the sky was still a bright, clear blue, the early morning haze almost completely burnt off by the sun. There had been a nip in the air earlier, but now it was warm, and John rolled down his window, resting one arm along the door, enjoying the breeze as he drove his baby down the highway.

T plus fifteen minutes. The boys were still dead. John was impressed. Given Sammy's sugar intake that morning, he hadn't been optimistic that the kid would last ten minutes. But Dean was still unmoving, propped against the door, and Sam always wanted to match his big brother.

Dolly Parton came on the radio. John hummed along. He'd always had a sneaking affection for Dolly Parton. He caught sight of an eagle, flying high above the road, and almost pointed it out to the boys, until he remembered that he was enjoying the peace and quiet. He found himself hoping that one of them – Sammy; please let it be Sammy – would fall asleep whilst making with the dead.

The quiet, almost imperceptible sound of a shuffle brought John's gaze to the mirror. All was still. Then the shuffling sound came again, and he saw that Sammy had gradually levered himself up so he could stare accusingly at Dean's immobile body. Slowly, inch by inch, Sammy's hand crept along the seat until he was able to poke Dean firmly in the thigh. Dean, an old hand at this game, didn't move. Sam poked harder, his face now set into a scowl.

"Dean," he whispered, poking again. "Dean, you're _cheating_!" Dean still didn't react, and John knew he had to make the call.

"Sam Winchester, you're looking pretty spry for a dead guy." Sammy's head whipped round, an objection forming already.

"But, Dad…"

"Bad luck, loser," crowed Dean, suddenly animate. Sam tried to punch him, but Dean had already slithered into the front seat, the usual reward for the winner of this particular game. Looking across at his eldest, John saw the root of Sam's dissatisfaction: Dean had been listening to his walkman. Sneaky. He raised an eyebrow, but Dean just grinned.

"C'mon, Dad. I mean, who's to say I didn't die with my headphones on? It's not like I moved," he said virtuously, turning round to stick his tongue out at Sam, who grimaced heavily in return, then crossed his arms, and sulked.

There was quiet for another ten minutes or so. John kept his eyes on the road. Dean listened to his walkman. Sam stared out the window.

"Hey, Dad, we stopping for food somewhere?" Dean asked, as he came to the end of his tape.

"Hey, Dad, we stopping for food somewhere?" echoed Sam. John stiffened. Please, Lord, not this. Anything but this. Dean's expression had already turned suspicious.

"I'm starving," he added, experimentally.

"I'm starving," Sam copied faithfully. John rubbed his forehead. The headache was coming, and coming fast. One day, he swore, he would exchange his baby for a truck, and the boys could sit out in the bed, come rain or shine.

"Shut up, jerk," said Dean heatedly, leaning over the seat to whack his brother, but Sam dodged out of the way and grinned seraphically.

"Shut up, jerk." John almost shook his head. Dean had made a textbook error. Really, he should have just turned over his tape, closed his eyes, and stayed quiet. One day he will learn. Dean looked ready to burst already, and John silently congratulated Sammy on finding the one thing that would irritate his elder brother more than anything else.

"I'm warning you, Sammy…"

"I'm warning you, Sammy!"

Just a shame it was as irritating for John as it was for Dean. He took his watch off again.

"Two minutes to die. Winner gets to pick lunch."

For two minutes, the car was filled with writhing and caterwauling. Then blessed silence. John loved this game.

END


End file.
